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Yearly my vows, O heavens, have I not paid,
Of the best fruits, and firstlings of my flock? 20 And oftentimes have bitterly inveigh'd 'Gainst them that you prophanely dar'd to
mock ? O, who shall ever give what is your due, If mortal man be uprighter than you?
If the deep fighs of an afflicted breaft,
25 O'erwhelm’d with sorrow, or th’erected eyes Of a poor wretch with miseries opprest,
For whose complaints tears never could suffice, Have not the power your deities to move, Who shall e'er look for succour from above? 30
O night, how still obsequious have I been,
To thy flow filence whispering in thine ear, That thy pale sovereign often hath been seen
Stay to behold me sadly from her sphere, Whilst the slow minutes duly I have told, With watchful eyes attending on my fold !
How oft by-thee the solitary fwain,
Breathing his passion to the early spring, Hath left to hear the nightingale complain,
Pleasing his thoughts alone to hear me sing! 40 The nymphs forsook their places of abode, To hear the sounds that from my musick flow'd.
Poor cur, quoth he, and him therewith did stroke ;
Go to your cote, and there thyself repose, Thou with thine age, my heart with sorrow broke. Be gone, ere death
do close; The time is come thou must thy master leave, 95 Whom the vile world shall never more deceive.
With folded arms thus hanging down his head,
He gave a groan, his heart in sunder cleft, And, as a stone, already seemed dead
Before his breath was fully him bereft: The faithful swain here lastly made an end, Whom all good shepherds ever shall defend.
BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.*
When fortie winters shall befeige thy brow,
And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field, Thy youthes proud liuery, fo gaz'd on now,
Will be a totter'd weed of smal worth held: Then, being askt, where all thy beautie lies,
5 Where all the treasure of thy lusty daies; To say within thine owne deepe-funken eyes,
•Were' an all-eating shame, and thriftlefse praise. How much more praise deseru'd thy beauties vse,
If thou couldit answere, this faire child of mine Shall fum my count, and make my old excuse !
Proouing his beautie by fucceffion thine. This were to be new made when thou art ould, And see thy blood warme when thou feel't it could.
* Born 1564; dyed 1616.
V. 8. where.
ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.
BY SIR HENRY WOTTON, KT.*
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfie our eyes,
What are you when the Sun shall rise ?
You curious chanters of the wood,
6 That warble forth dame Natures lays, Thinking your voices understood, By your weak accents, what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise ?
You violets, that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
What are you when the Rose is blown?
* Born 1568 ; dyed 1639,
So, when my Mistriss shall be seen
In form and beauty of het mind, By vertue first then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th'eclipse and glory of her kind ?
UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERT
BY THE SAME,
He first deceas'd; the for a little tri'd